


Challenge

by William_Magnus



Category: Werewolf: The Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:42:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/William_Magnus/pseuds/William_Magnus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ikol, whose rited name is Tears Through Bronze is challenged for ownership of a the only one of several powerful fetishes he has created that he has kept for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Challenge

"And now," Rages Last Rages Best's softly accented voice cut through the low murmur of sound being made by the many werewolves present. "Are there any other challenges to be made?"

There was of course the expected murmur of noise as the shifting of stances as packs prepared to be challenged for territory, Alphas prepared to be challenged by those that did not approve how they have lead, and everyone waited for small scores to be settled. till a single clear voice broke through everything.

"I challenge the mule Tears Through Bronze for his weapon."

As one the assembled wolves moved leaving a clear path between the speaker, and the Garou he had challenged. The challenger, a red haired warrior of the Get of Fenris only that night elevated to rank equal to Tears Through Bronze stood with a cocky smirk on his face that turned half snarl when he spotted the other werewolf.

Tears Through Bronze, born to the name Ikol, simply looked surprised at the were wolf who had almost half the mass of the pale deathly white metis. He did not discount the danger of the smaller wolf, if for no reason than being built at nearly one and a half times larger scale than normal humans made it so everyone he knew was much smaller than him. Eyes half closed he stroked the large ornate hammer that hung from his hip, almost as if caressing it for the last time or perhaps communing with the spirits bound inside the hammer, till he reached the spike that came from one side of its head.

"Do you accept the challenge?" Rage's voice cut through the sudden silence following the challenge. His accent growing stronger, a sure sign that the Russian was interested in the outcome of events unfolding before him.

"I know you." Started Tears. "I know you Fire on Ice of the Get of Fenris. But, do you know what you challenge for? Before I accept, or give up tell me. What do you see when you look at this hammer? Do you smell the truth of the spirits within? Do you hear it's name in the ringing beats of it striking metal? What is it you perceive?"

It was a dangerous gambit, but Tears...no Ikol the werewolf born his in his war form and raised as metis always watching from the shadows of the Caern hated for what he is and how he was born would not let the first, and greatest, of his creations go without everyone present knowing the truth behind it.

"It is a weapon second in power and strength to the Jarlhammers themselves. How the elders let a metis, a deformed mule like you, keep it this long I will never know. It belongs in a the hands of a warrior who will use it to crush his foes and who is destined to rule. Whatever you call it, the hammer will earn its real name and destiny in my hands."

Inside of him Ikol snarled and wanted to fight for the insult to himself and his work. On the outside though, Tears Through Bronze laughed. Not a nervous laugh, or a surprised one, or even a derisive one. No, his was a jolly almost dismissive laugh.

"If that is all, then you are a fool. A blind and deaf fool that could not scent his way out of a paper bag." The Caern of the Blue Moon was a mixed Caern, with members of most if not all of the tribes of Garou. Were it held by the Get of Fenris, or even had its elder been of the Get instead of being the Shadow Lord Rages Last Rages Best, the Tears Through Bronzes actions would have been an acceptance of the challenge in the form of a Flyting, a contest of insults.

"What have you done that makes you worthy of this hammer?" He asked pausing only long enough to obviously to cut off the start of a response on Fire on Ice's part. "What have you done in the name og Gaia, or your Tribe, or even your pack that was not born of selfish personal glory or of Death and Destruction?"

The question of course came as a surprise to everyone present. It was words one might hear in a battle of wits between Theurges, or Philodox, or even Galliards but not in a challenge between a pair of Ahurons. 

"I have slain enemies, I have crushed armor and powdered bone with my hammer but I have done more than that." Tears Through Bronze nearly snarled at his challenger who was quickly loosing the cocksure smirk on his lips while the lightest touch of frost started to form almost unnoticed at the larger bone white werewolf's feet.

"The Caern you stand in now, it's lodge was in disarray when we came here. With this hammer I have built walls, I have nailed new beams for floor and ceiling, I have placed supports in the mines that lead into the heart of this mountain, and I have expanded the forges here so that they can provide warmth to all its rooms even in the dead of winter. Have you acted to protect your fellows, your blood, your pack from the ravages of the weather?"

"With these hands, with this hammer I have built. And with them I have crafted weapons to protect my pack." A fervor, a passion for what he said and all he has done built within Ikol as he spoke. Without thought, or sign of noticing, he had begun to slide from his fully human form into the larger hairier but still basically human like Hispo form.

"Born of my hands with the first and still greatest of my creations I have sought to prepare those that fight alongside me." With a wave of his hand he gestured in the direction of his pack, first to a man of obvious middle eastern descent.

In his early twenties, at the latest, the young man was dressed in fashion fairly typical for his age. With one ear bud of music player still stuck in his hear he had spent much of the moot appearing as if he were only half paying attention, though the perceptive and paranoid would wonder why he would work so much to appear as if he were not paying close attention to everything.

"Niohogg and Nastro, Bane Fangs redeemed and ever ready to drink deep the blood of the Wyrm." 

Sensing a perfect moment calling for the greatest of theatrics the Middle Eastern male produced seemingly form nowhere a pair of silver bo shrunken like weapons that sparkled in the torchlight in a way that was almost an aggressive glare. With the lightest flick of his wrists he impaled a pair of rolls from a table on the far side of the clearing where the moot was being held. Not finished yet he moved with a flourish and spin revealing the weapons no longer pinning the rolls to the table but held neatly between fingers of his right hand....and the rolls held dramatically twixt the fingers of his left. His moment in the spot light done the young man gestures back to Tears Through Bronze while taking a bite of one of the rolls.

With a raised eyebrow Tears continues on this time pointing in the direction of an Asian woman who was as small compared to the average person as Tears was large. already knowing what is coming thanks to Whispers of Rain showing off she pulled the metal chain she worse as a belt free snapping at the air before her with the bladed end shaped like a scorpion's stinger.

"Death's Bane, the scorpion's tail felt keenly by ghost and man alike." The small Asian woman snapped the chain a few more times before having it harden in her hands into a staff that she gave a few impressive twirls before having it wrap her waist once more.

"Locke's Wire, the spider chain that grasps its foes with all the Weaver's greed." He says gesturing in the direction of another young man toying with a pair of Google (tm) Glass (pp).

Without looking up, or giving the appearance of actually paying attention the young man whipped out a chain with a spider shaped weight on the end of it whipping it across the clearing that was a good ten times the length that the chain appeared to be catching a shield hanging from a tree and with a flick of the hand bringing the chain and shield to come flying at him before catching it out of the air. 

"And Susurrus, the Shadow Klaive. Slayer of foes that bites with the fury of Gaia and passes by the scales of the Wyrm like a shadow crossing an empty room."

I the hands of the alpha of Tear's pack the klaive lived up to its name. Appearing almost as if it had be sheathed in the young Shadow Lord's shadow the blade seemingly forged of the darkness its self made a sounds dampened to a slight whisper just at the edge of hearing.

"Have you crafted weapons for your pack, for any within your Tribe or even for another of the changing breeds? Have you made anything in the name of Gaia save death and destruction? The hammer I hold, the hammer I crafted may have power like unto those of the fables Jarlhammers but it is more than that. It is now just a weapon made to rule to crash those before it."

Tears Through Bronzes voice started deadly cool but began to grow in fervor and pitch, the spot of frost at his feet growing as he shifted unthinking into his war form, the giant even for other werewolves Crinos shape towering 13 foot tall.

"She is bound not only with a spirit of war but also one of craft, of creation. She is not simply a weapon to be waved in threat and used to tear down all that stands before her but a tool to be used to craft to build new into this world. You who see only rage, only destruction have no rite no call and no worth yet to challenge for her! I am Ikol, Tears Through bronze, Creator as well as Destroyer and KLAIVE MOTHER IS MINE!"

The fury of his declaration, and the emotion with which Ikol placed in his refuting of Fire on Ice's rite to challenge for Klaive Mother as well as the very reasons why were enough to cause the stunned silence that fell over the moot. A silence that held till some unnamed person in a stage whisper loud enough for all those present asked, "Are we sure he isn't really a Galliard?"


End file.
